


The Things You Do for Love (Are Going to Come Back to You One by One)

by Cannebady



Series: All That You Are to Me [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Body Worship, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley's a pine tree in a forest of denial, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Marriage Proposal, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Rimming, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Time Skips, so very very soft, this is soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:21:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22550902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cannebady/pseuds/Cannebady
Summary: Crowley only really has one speed; fast. When he hung the stars themselves he did so quickly and decisively, when he realized that Heaven would never answer his questions he Fell fast too. When he fell the second time (in love with an angel, peering over the Eastern gate of Eden), he was mostly used to how running headlong into emotionally-driven life choices tended to bite him in the arse, so he never assumed that there could be a positive outcome. Often, Crowley is wrong.---Crowley's point of view after the events of You're All I've Ever Wanted (I Think I'll Regret This)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley/Original Female Character(s) (Good Omens), Crowley/Original Male Character(s)
Series: All That You Are to Me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622269
Comments: 22
Kudos: 325
Collections: Hot Omens





	The Things You Do for Love (Are Going to Come Back to You One by One)

**Author's Note:**

> I promised something from Crowley's POV and here it is! This is my first series, so in addition to the standing apologies about my deplorable editing skills, I'll now apologize for rambling on about these dummies. They're just so soft, and my dudes, I am soft for them.
> 
> Also, while this is technically a sequel, it can be read as standalone. 
> 
> Title is from Love, Love, Love by the Mountain Goats
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at Cannebady if you want!

Crowley can't believe his luck. 

Truly. He's actually not sure if this is _real_. For all of the faith he has in his luck (which, honestly, is still probably more than he _should_ have, all things considered), it's just as likely that he's still standing statue-still and gobsmacked in his sitting room, staring at the empty space an angel used to occupy and hallucinating wildly from shock, repressed affection and self-deprecation for _not bloody saying anything, for fucks sake_. 

Is it possible that was whole _days_ ago? Is it possible that he's actually holding said angel as he sleeps (please, _please_ , let it be possible)? Is it actually, truly, _really_ possible that he's sleeping because he just fucked Crowley six ways from Sunday and finally needed a rest? (And who would've thought _that_ was what would finally convince Aziraphale that there was merit to sleeping?) 

He isn't sure, but if this is real _(please),_ then he's the luckiest bastard in the 9 circles, and you can take that to the bank. Seriously, feel free. Bankers can be found exclusively between circles 4 and 7; he made sure of it himself when the whole Capitalism thing took off. 

Returning to the (unbelievable, shocking, _too-bloody-good-be-true_ ) present, the demon takes the opportunity to run his hands along Aziraphale's side. There's just so much of him to touch; ample, really. Fucking _decadent_. Each inch is soft, the flesh giving pleasantly under his seeking palm, and the curves of the angel's form fit so perfectly against his own harsh and jagged edges. He always thought, in the recesses of his mind when he allowed himself to be fanciful, or when they'd imbibed too much and his iron-clad control of his thoughts wavered, that the angel would feel incredible in his hands. His imagination had been honest and a long-ignored part of him settles at overlaying the mental map with the reality. 

Speaking of honesty, Crowley can admit to himself now, in these quiet hours, why he always took lovers much different in aesthetic from Aziraphale. He always knew, he supposes, but it's one thing to know in a way you won't let yourself examine and another to admit it outright, but now seems there's space for such frivolity.

\---

If Crowley were forced to guess, he'd wager he fell in love (and he can admit that too, now, that love is what it is, what it was, and what it will be) about 15 seconds after Aziraphale anxiously exclaimed, _"I gave it away!"_. He knows it's embarrassing, alright? He's lived the entirety of his 6,000 years of life on Earth knowing that, as a demon (a big, scary demon, from _actual Hell_ , who had just gotten the humans _kicked out of Eden_ for Somebody's sake), he fell so quickly, so completely, _arse-over-elbows_ in love with an _angel_ , of all creatures, that he could barely contain the impulse to fall at his feet and beg for-, well, _something_. 

His only saving grace (the irony is not lost on him) was that he was still trying to get a handle on this whole having a human body thing and it really did take quite a bit of concentration. That being said, Crowley was a regrettably fast learner and, after slithering back down to the garden he'd quickly figured out that a) he was experiencing the sin of Lust himself (and what a novelty _that_ was) and, b) that he'd observed Adam and Eve enough to know something he could do about it. He knew, however, that the object of his affection would not reciprocate or deem it reasonable to solve the issue cooperatively, so he'd have to take matters into his own hands (both figuratively and, ahem, _literally)._

So, when it comes down to it, when Crowley began making an effort he'd known Aziraphale for roughly 5 whole hours. Yes, he's _that_ pathetic. It did hurt, a bit, to know so instinctively that the angel couldn't, or wouldn't (would refuse to, unforgivable as he was), see him that way, but being somewhat of a pragmatist he knew hoping for anything otherwise was an exercise in futility. After years of calling out to the divine without response after his Fall, he'd been very done with begging for consideration from anything holy. So he'd let his imagination run wild and became adept at entertaining his fantasies solo. 

That had worked for quite some time. Entire millennia, really. But then there was Rome. He'd been having an awful day considering the whole Caligula nonsense. Hell may be happy, but Crowley felt filthy for having had a hand in it. Enter one sunshine-y angel, with his lovely white curls, and soft clothing, and an unwitting offer of aphrodisiacs (kill him, no literally, _please kill him_ ) and you get a completely new fixation and a raging, untameable erection that the demon's hand was doing fuck-all to relieve. 

That was the first time he'd ever taken a human lover. The thought had made him uncomfortable before, something about deceiving humans (not that he should be concerned with such things, _demon remember?_ ) in that way hadn't sat right, but he was just drunk, heartbroken, and pathetic enough after seeing Aziraphale off that he opened himself to the concept. 

When he happened on a tavern, there were options. Human gender meant nothing to him, so it was a matter of seeing who was interested. Luckily, he had it on good authority that his corporation was not unenticing, so he figured it'd only be a matter of making himself appear amenable. Two humans fairly immediately looked his way; one was a young woman, rather heavy set with wavy brown hair and the softest eyes he'd ever seen (spare for a very dear pair he tried his best not to think about). The other was a tall gentleman with short cropped black hair and a lithe but whipcord strength to him. 

He considered what he might be attracted to, and imagined himself running his hands over either form. While the thought of the woman's soft flesh made him almost _desperate_ (don't think about why, you'll ruin this if you do), the version of her in his mind kept changing; chestnut hair lightened to platinum, her soft amber eyes turning to mimic moss covered stones on a lake. He shut the thought down entirely ( _viciously_ ), downed his ale in few dedicated gulps, and sauntered towards the ( _very_ interested) gentleman and that was that.

He's embarrassed to admit that he never even asked for something as rudimentary as a name (this became somewhat of a habit, really). He just wanted relief and distraction which the man happily provided. It wasn't bad, not really. He was handsome and attentive, and clearly experienced. Crowley enjoyed the feeling of someone else's hands running through his hair, down his back, gripping his arse. He enjoyed a mouth on his throat, his nipples, and _fuck_ , he definitely liked having someone's mouth on his cock. He was surprised to find that he enjoyed touching his partner just as much, if not more. He loved pulling noises from the man, finding what touches made him gasp, which ones made him pant, and which drew loud, lusty moans into the small lodging Crowley was occupying. 

When all was said and done he can't say he regretted it, although the empty feeling once the man had left was _awful_ and he had to miracle himself up a new set of sheets to deal with how wrong it felt to have someone else's scent on his bed (or perhaps just not the _right_ someone else). All in all, though, it was manageable. This was something he could do; it might even be something he could learn to enjoy more when he was feeling less raw. Perhaps it'd even help to mend his bleeding throbbing heart.

That last bit really was a pipe dream, and he knew it even as he first thought it.

After that, to the casual observer, Crowley had a thing for tall, dark, and striking. No one needed to know that the ghost of soft curves, creamy giving flesh, and seafoam eyes haunted each amorous encounter. 

\---

There were others; of course there were. Being immortal certainly leaves a lot of time available and as time went on, Crowley saw Aziraphale more and more. Each time they crossed paths, they seemed to get closer to _something._ Maybe not what Crowley wanted so desperately (and it really was _desperate_ , the more he knew the angel the more there was to want), but something very closely mirroring friendship and Crowley was, as aforementioned pathetic, so he'd take whatever he could get.

He met him at the Globe Theatre and single-handedly made _Hamlet_ a success. With the echo of Aziraphale's beaming smile in his head he bedded an actor ("What does your friend think?", _indeed_ ) and nearly had to leave London after getting caught for how loud he got.

He rescued Aziraphale from the Bastille, bought him crepes, and could not, for the immortally damned life of him, get the image of his frilly togs (the stockings and, _Heaven preserve him, his fancy shoes_ ) out of his head. So he went back to England, immersed himself in the social elite, and found himself quite a few enthusiastic partners to pass the time.

\---

There were times, throughout history, where one of his paramours had hung around for more than one night. There were also times, during these several night stands, where Crowley and Aziraphale's Arrangement would overlap; thus, he'd dealt with the awkward experience of Aziraphale coming face-to-face with one of Crowley's lovers. The first time, surprisingly, was shortly after the whole issue with the Bastille. Crowley had met a woman named Mary (he'd broken his rule, largely because of how forward she was - one of the things Crowley'd liked about her) who was rich and looking to rebel with a suave stranger. She was a fabulous lover, meeting him in variety, frequency and, erm, _voracity_. He'd happily spent several hours between her legs and she'd happily returned the favor. It wasn't a love connection; it couldn't be considering that she was human and mortal and Crowley was a demon and very much in love with someone else. But he had been, to some degree, _satisfied_ during their dalliance.

They'd been held up in his rooms for nearly three days when Crowley sensed an angelic presence lurking. Not expecting to see Aziraphale so soon as their last meeting, he'd left the bed to do some lurking of his own and see to whom he owed the honor when he, instead, had come face-to-face with Aziraphale (once again in those damnable stockings and frills, be still his beating heart). While not typical of him, Aziraphale had thought it a great time to break his history of delicate propriety and had, for lack of better descriptors, kind of just, _invited himself in_ only to find a sheet-clad brunette lounging in his sitting room.

Crowley had stammered something about needing to speak with a business associate, at which point Mary had stood, let the sheet fall (revealing her scantily-clad form, Heaven help him), kissed his cheek, and told him, in full earshot (and eyeline) of Aziraphale to _meet him in the bedroom when he was done_. Aziraphale had not looked scandalized as Crowley had figured he would. Instead, a very complicated look had passed over the angel's face. He'd held Crowley's gaze for a moment too long for polite company before saying, "Well, I'd come to discuss-", he'd signed, then continued, "It doesn't really matter. You're clearly, erm, _occupied_. I'll speak with you later."

Before he could say otherwise, Aziraphale had begged off and Crowley had, after a moment of reflection, returned to the bedroom.

It wasn't the last time, although it was the most explicit. Others were simply Aziraphale glimpsing the comings and goings. Each time, the air was thick with tension Crowley couldn't understand and dared not to think too hard about. Call it practiced evasion or self-preservation; you'd probably be right either way.

\---

He was _fine_ , really, absolutely fine with it. About a decade after their run-in in Crowley's sitting room, Aziraphale had opened up his bookshop in Soho and Crowley was privately elated. No more waiting on bated breath to run into the angel again; he could just drop in, say hello, trade a few blessings for a few wiles and secretly look his fill whenever he wanted.

Unfortunately, his pragmatic nature made itself known after some time. Heaven and Hell, for all that they'd rather not deal with the whole Earthly business, did have the habit of dropping in every so often. With Aziraphale in the same place, he'd need to prepare for the potential that Hell could figure out their Arrangement. He pushed it to the back of his mind for as long as he could. Aziraphale was prone to fretting and he hadn't wanted to rock the proverbial boat. Their interactions in the past several decades had been, dare he say, _friendly_ and he had not wanted to give up the angel's good favor. But a poorly timed commendation for Aziraphale (almost ending with him being recalled to Heaven, _God forbid_ ), had rendered Crowley in need of haste.

If he were to be found out, he could always claim to Hell that he was trying to tempt an angel to Fall, but Aziraphale wouldn't be so lucky. No one did strict rules and zero tolerance better than Heaven and there was no such thing as a risen demon; there's nothing Aziraphale could claim to be doing that'd spare him their wrath, and nothing ever kicked Crowley into action faster than coming to Aziraphale's rescue (so maybe he fancied himself a bit of a knight in shining, well, black armor? _So what?_ ).

As far as conversations go, it'd gone about as badly as it could've. Leave it to his frustrating, stubborn ( _beautiful, strong, steadfast_ ), hard-headed angel to completely miss the point and jump to exactly the wrong conclusion. After both mocking and pushing the angel away in equal turn on St. James Park, he'd spent the better part of a decade or two sulking about it, kept their interactions removed, icy, all-business.

Around 1882, he'd wanted to mend fences so he sought the angel out, only to realize that he'd taken up a new hobby. While skulking about a discrete gentleman's club he'd heard noise of Aziraphale frequenting, he saw him _dancing_ with some humans and, at the end, was quite shocked to see him _kiss_ one of them. It hadn't been a long kiss, but he also hadn't stuck around long enough to see the end. He'd dramatically stormed back to his flat and took a well-deserved nap.

When he woke up, it was the mid-1900's, the world was on the brink of war and, to avoid dealing with his complicated feelings about Aziraphale (and his complicated feelings about war), he'd treated himself to his prized possession; his Bentley. He drove about acting as the high society human he pretended to be, distracted himself with lavish parties in America (and equally as lavish rolls in the hay) and clever ways to sow discord and generally draped himself in elegance and debauchery until it felt hollow and awful and he made his way back to London, head hung low. 

It wasn't long before his sixth sense for Aziraphale's well-being started to tingle and he knew, he just _knew_ , that the angel was about to get discorporated _again._ For a whole three minutes he'd been stroppy enough to think about doing nothing, but it was really never a question. Before he'd known it he was doing a very inelegant jig down the aisle towards Aziraphale ( _don't think about it, don't think about it)_ and saving his friend, and his precious books, from a Nazi-induced end.

When he'd handed his friend the bag a books, something had shifted. He was too distracted by his burning feet and how good it felt to see Aziraphale again to clock what exactly it was, but something had changed. When he'd pulled up outside of the bookshop to drop Aziraphale off, the angel had grabbed his hand and Crowley almost had a heart attack right then and there. He'd stared, unblinking, at Aziraphale's fingers enclosing his wrist, mouth open in a way he could only imagine was unattractive.

"I know we don't-" the angel had started, "say things, but _thank you_." Crowley had been gearing up for a scathing dismissal, when he'd moved one of his feet and near yelped.

"What is it, my dear?" Aziraphale said. Crowley'd been momentarily sidelined by _my dear,_ but managed to cover the too-loud beating of his decorative heart with a flippant, "It's just my feet, angel. It's fine".

Aziraphale's face had been the picture of misery for a moment, before he steeled and looked Crowley in the eye. "Come in, Crowley. Let me help."

He'd been about to dismiss the idea as ludicrous when Aziraphale had gotten out of the Bentley, moved to the driver's side, opened Crowley's door and held out his hand. Just _held his hand out for Crowley to take_ , like it was something they did. Too dumbfounded to do otherwise, he'd taken the proffered hand and allowed the angel to lead him to the back room of the shop.

The next half hour had seen an angel kneeling before a demon, washing his feet, bandaging and wrapping his wounds, and settling him in front of a roaring fire with warm, fragrant cup of tea. The angel in question had, without hesitation, seen to his friend's needs, and bustled off to his shop to do whatever it was that he got up to, leaving the demon reeling, staring into the fire, and ignoring the aching heart within his fragile chest.

A couple of decades later Crowley is gifted with another dose of whiplash, sitting in his Bentley with a thermos of holy water pressed into his hands. All he could manage to ask the angel was where he could take him (what can I give you, _what do you_ want?). For his effort he received a fresh dose of heartbreak in the form of _"You go too fast for me, Crowley."_

Aziraphale had as good as run from the car after leaving Crowley in turmoil; confused and damn near _yearning_ , and trying to manage the heat seeking missile of self-loathing pointed determinably inward. As much as it'd hurt, he hadn't been surprised at all. It was just another in a long string of rejections - another time he reached out to be rebuffed. That seemed to be Aziraphale's modus operandi; he'd give Crowley a scrap, Crowley would latch onto it like a starving man, and Aziraphale would leave him wading in his own self-deprecation without so much as a by-your-leave. Moreover, Crowley had realized that he was _tired._ Exhausted, really, in the bone-deep way that only came from years upon years of _wanting_ with nothing to show for it.

_Fuck it_ , he'd thought, and exited the Bentley, walked straight (well, as straight as he ever walked) into the nearest bar with one goal in mind; get ridiculously, mind-numbingly sloshed in the hope of drowning out the voice in his head reminding him that he'd never be good enough for the angel. He was on his third whiskey when he felt someone occupy the seat next to him. He'd been planning on a night of wallowing in his own misery quite by himself, but one look to his left and the though, _well, why not?_

The man had been quite a bit shorter, fairer, and stockier than his typical fare. He had curly, dirty blonde hair, light brown eyes, and was dressed like an uptight professor. There were alarms bells going off in his head to _stay away you complete dolt, this way lies madness_ , but he was drunk and self-loathing enough to ignore his better sense. Instead, he'd bought the man a drink and turned up the charm. Being a demon, he could _feel_ lust, and it was coming off of this man in droves. He finally asked him back to his flat and, before long, he had him naked, sprawled on his very large, very indulgent mattress, and was licking a blazing hot trail down his chest.

The man was panting, swearing, and encouraging Crowley with hands fisted tightly in his hair. When he'd finally wrapped his lips around the man's cock, ignoring how good it felt to have his head bracketed by plush thighs, he'd groaned out, "Oh, Anthony, _please_ " in a tone just slightly too deep. The tone, and the use of his adopted moniker, wasn't bad, per se, but it was _wrong_ completely. He'd made sure to make it good for his partner (he had a reputation to uphold, after all), but when it came time for reciprocation, he just-, it was too much. Too close to what he wanted to be too obviously _not_ and he couldn't. He recalled the story of Icarus; he wouldn't fly too close to the sun. _He couldn't._

He'd gently let the man down, thanked him for the evening, and ushered him out. If he ended up spending the rest of that evening making his way through his reserve of vintage reds, listening to "Pale Blue Eyes", and allowing himself a cathartic cry, it's neither here nor there.

After that, he'd only found consolation in the arms of humans who didn't remind him of anything familiar; at least until he was burdened with delivering the Antichrist and catalyzing Armageddon. After, he couldn't bring himself to waste time anymore on things that left him empty. Maybe he'd never have Aziraphale as he wanted, but he had him in his life almost daily now and it was enough. Even if it was all he ever got, it would be enough. It had to be.

\---

Back in the warm lovelight of the present, Crowley looks over his lover, _his angel_ , again. They've been in bed for some time, and the blazing, late afternoon sun is striping the bed in shades of gold, complimenting the angelic hues in Aziraphale's hair and the lovely gold stripes along his sides and thighs. He's so beautiful Crowley could cry with how overwhelmed he is. He wants to touch him and realizes, with a shock, that he _can touch_. He's allowed to now. Aziraphale wants him, loves him even (as wild as that is). It's fucking incredible and Crowley even considers sending up a quick prayer to the Almighty for sending him this most perfect angel. 

He curls up behind him and breathes in his scent, committing to memory everything about this moment. While he's fairly confident that they're on the same page, he doesn't want to forget any of this. After a few moments, he allows himself to let his imagination run wild. For so long he's kept himself on a short leash, never letting himself think of this too much, never allowing himself the luxury of imagining a world in which his love was accepted, returned in kind. But now, _oh now_ , he has time. He has the knowledge that some of the things he imagines may be able to be made real, made flesh, and that's-

That's more than he _ever_ thought he'd have in the whole of his damned immortality.

Shockingly, his mind doesn't immediately go to the explicit, even though he has a very naked Aziraphale pressed against him. Instead, he imagines soft things; holding hands while dining at the Ritz, having Aziraphale cuddled into his side while they take a drive through the countryside, windows down and music playing softly. He imagines treating Aziraphale to a back rub to alleviate the tension from a day hunched over a new priceless tome, them both relaxing in his gigantic clawfoot tub; Aziraphale wet and warm and leaning against him, head tucked under his chin.

Then he takes a deep breath and opens a box he'd clearly labeled "Never Open on Threat of Death" nearly eight decades ago, and his mind trails back to 1941. Suddenly, the church in his mind falls away, as do the Nazis and the horrible feeling of unrequited love unexpressed, and he imagines a different situation in which he might meet Aziraphale down an aisle. Where instead of shock, he'd be met with a beatific smile and (happy) tear-lined eyes. He feels his heart speed up and realizes, for the first time, how much he wants that reality. Although they aren't human, they have gone remarkably native; both feeling more at home on Earth, among humans, than they'd ever felt in Heaven or Hell, respectively.

He wonders if Aziraphale might be similar-minded. If Crowley were to pull out a ring and ask for eternity, if he might be met with a teary " _Yes"_.

Once he starts thinking about it, he can't actually _stop_ thinking about it. It's ridiculous really, because they've been properly together for about 10 hours at this point. But he's been in love for 6,000 years and that has to count for something, right?

He looks over and sees that Aziraphale is still sleeping soundly. He wonders what kind of ring Aziraphale might like. Gold, definitely gold. It's a good color on the angel. Something simple, timeless, and utterly gorgeous; just like him. Without much by the way of active participation, a ring meeting those specifications materializes in Crowley's hand. It's _perfect_ and it's making him feel things but also has to be too fast. It took the angel six millennia to confess his feelings (coming to the exact _wrong_ conclusion, but that's not important right now), there's no way he'll be ready for this just yet. And Crowley can't scare him away, can't ruin this. He's wanted this for the entirety of the Earth's lifespan and now that he's had a taste, he can't possibly give it up.

He's about to get up and hide the ring somewhere safe, when Aziraphale turns towards him and slowly opens his eyes. Expecting to see a sleeping demon, he's a bit surprised when his eyes take in the following:

There's a demon in Aziraphale's bed who looks entirely besotted, extremely nervous, and very embarrassed all at the same time. His hair's a wreck (from his own hands, _dear God_ ) and there are a few scattered love bites around his neck and chest, and he's holding (and trying to hide) what looks like a gold ring.

Crowley, for his part, is having a complete breakdown. _Of course_ this would happen. Just when he had everything, as soon as he'd let himself think about it too hard, he's managed to ruin it. Truth be told, he's almost impressed (would be completely if he wasn't also _devastated)._

"Crowley", Aziraphale starts, "what are you-, what's that?"

The angel's voice is sleep rough but also heart-stoppingly breathless. Between that and the sleep-mussed curls and the fact that his bare-arsed naked and _pressed against him_ , the effect is truly devastating on a completely different level. Crowley's would be diamond-cutter hard if he wasn't also having an emotional breakdown.

"I was just-, I was thinking and this just, uh, happened." He comes up with possibly the lamest explanation in the history of lame explanations (a human construct he'd literally orchestrated himself).

"You were thinking and a ring appeared?" Aziraphale parrots back, far too deadpan for Crowley's liking.

"Um, yeah. That's-, that's what happened." It's not a lie. It is, quite literally, what happened. Perhaps Aziraphale doesn't need to know _what_ Crowley was thinking about to bring the object into existence.

"Alright. What were you thinking about, my dear?" And there it is. There's a spark in Aziraphale's eyes that Crowley can't read entirely but he's pretty sure will spell his making or his ruin.

"I, uh", he starts lamely, "I was thinking about. Um." He desperately trying to come up with something, but his brain is not at peak performance.

Aziraphale grabs his hands, ring and all, and gently strokes the back of his hand with a thumb. "Just tell me, my dear. What is it?" His voice is soft, but almost pleading. It scares Crowley to his core, but something makes him bold.

"You. I was thinking about you. I was thinking about what it might be like to, um-" he trails off. This is the world's worst proposal. Crowley started the trend of uploading videos of failed proposals to YouTube somewhere in the early 2000's and, similar to bringing the London mobile networks down and the whole mess with the M25, his demonic work tends to inconvenience _him_ primarily.

"Crowley," Aziraphale starts, and forces Crowley to look into his eyes, "I need you to tell me what you're thinking. I'd _really,_ like to know what's on your mind." His voice is pleading and Crowley breaks, completely shatters.

"Marry me, angel", he blurts out. _Smooth-talking serpent of Eden his arse._ "I love you, and it's been 6,000 years, and I want the rest of eternity. I know it's too fast, but please, marry me."

"Oh Crowley, _yes_ ", his eyes are red-rimmed and his smile is absolutely incandescent. "Yes, of course I will marry you."

He's bowled over and almost drops the ring in his haste to get it on Aziraphale's finger, but he does and it fits perfectly (because it knows better than not to) and then he kisses his _fiancé_ and the entire world slots into place for him for the first time in his very, very long life.

Before he knows it, Aziraphale has pulled him to lean over him, practically on top of him, and he's whispering, "I love you, God, Crowley, I love you so much" against his lips, and Aziraphale's hands are in his hair and trailing down his back, and Crowley can feel the coolness from that slim band of gold and it's driving him crazy. He groans, full and throaty, cupping his angel's cheeks and moving just far enough away to look Aziraphale in the eye.

"I love you too, Heaven, Hell and a good portion of humanity probably knows it too. Fuck, angel, I can't believe I get to have you forever." His hips have started to grind against Aziraphale's and he suddenly remembers that they're both naked. That's Aziraphale's hard cock he can feel against his own groin. _Fuck._ "What do you want, angel? Anything you want, you'll have it." He speaks it against Aziraphale's lips while maintaining as much eye contact as possible.

"You, Crowley, I want you. Would you-, I mean would you want to-," a particularly filthy grind pulls a groan from the angel before he continues, " _Oh_ , Crowley, would you fuck me?"

He snakes a hand down between them to stroke them together. "Yes, angel, yes anything you want."

He spends a few minutes stroking them together, reveling in the sounds tumbling from the angel's mouth, drinking them from his lips, allowing himself to feel the lust rolling off of the angel and allowing Aziraphale to feel the love he hopes to a God who isn't listening he can still emit.

"How do you want me?" the angel asks urgently.

" _Fuck_ , like this angel, you're perfect just like this." Later, Crowley will take him any way, _every way_ , but right now he wants to shower Aziraphale in love, affection, and attention. He wants him laid out beneath him like a banquet.

Kissing down his chest he spends time laving both nipples with his forked tongue (he's far past the ability to keep it in its' more human form), leading to Aziraphale whining and breathing so quickly that Crowley would be concerned if he were human. He continues down, laying kiss after kiss on his soft stomach, dipping his tongue into his belly button, and nipping at the soft flesh right below.

He's struck with an idea, but he's far past the capacity for complex words. "Tell me if you don't like this", is all he says before he lays a light kiss on the base of Aziraphale's cock, and continues kissing further back until he's moved both (gorgeous, _fucking edible_ ) thighs over his shoulders and spreading the angel's cheeks. He raises his head a fraction at Aziraphale's sharp intake of breath, but the look on his face is an obvious green light, so he throws all caution to the wind and buries his face between the angel's cheeks and applies his tongue to the tight ring of muscle.

" _Oh,_ Crowley-, that's-, oh it feels, no one's ever-, _oh_ _God_ ", Aziraphale is panting, and moaning constantly and Crowley is pushing is tongue in now, practically fucking Aziraphale's hole with his tongue, ravenous with it and spurred on by his angel's enthusiastic response. The angel was made for this, responds so well to being rimmed. He can't believe no one else ever took the chance to eat him out.

After a few moments, he miracles a bit of slick on his fingers and lets them enter the equation. No sooner does he run one slick digit around the rim and Aziraphale is pushing back, trying to get it to enter him.

"Greedy," he murmurs, without any bite to it, and places a light nip on his thigh and Aziraphale groans anew.

"Please, Crowley, please, your fingers. I want you so badly, please don't make me wait." And out the window goes Crowley's self-control. He pushes a finger in, receiving only minimal resistance, and quickly follows with a second and third when it becomes clear that Aziraphale couldn't love this more.

He crooks his fingers, spending a few moments just running his finger tips along the angel's prostate just to feel his hips buck up and hear him nearly scream with it.

" _Now Crowley,_ oh please, now I'm ready for you", Aziraphale babbles out, practically fucking himself on Crowley's fingers, and isn't that a glorious fucking thing.

"Of course, yeah, 'course." And he's removing his fingers and kissing his way up the angel's body. He takes his mouth in a filthy kiss, and hitches Aziraphale's legs around his waist. He takes a moment to slick himself and, with a nod from his lover, he enters him.

"Slow, my dear," the angel slurs out, making eye contact with Crowley. "Make me _feel it._ "

And who is he to deny that request?

He moves with slow rolls of his hips, making sure that the angle is right. He lowers onto his elbows and slides his forearms under Aziraphale's shoulders, effectively pressing them together from chest to pelvis. There are thousands, millions, of points of contact between them and the position allows him to press his forehead to Aziraphales as he grinds into him.

The slow pace is driving him insane. Every inch of the angel's soft body is rubbing against him, lighting him up, and he's so _hot_ and _tight_ inside that Crowley has to use every available demonic power bestowed to him not to come on the spot. He's making his own fair share of noise, sounds he didn't even think he was capable of. 

Aziraphale's cock is leaking steadily between them, slick from both his own precum and Crowley's earlier attention, and it's clear that he won't last long. He's grinding back against Crowley, trying to get him even deeper and drawing desperate groans from the demon.

" _Angel,_ it's so much, so good, _you're too good._ " He's murmuring everything right into Aziraphale's ear; the position so intimate and so much for each of them.

"Oh love, yes, _right there please right there, don't you dare stop,"_ and the begging is driving Crowley insane. He's bringing Aziraphale that pleasure and he's never felt better. He grinds just slightly harder, adding the smallest of hitches to his hips to drill Aziraphale's prostate, and he hits his mark with flying colors.

Aziraphale's arms move from his shoulders to his lower back, right above where the angel's ankles are locked behind him, pulling him in as much as he can.

Something foreign, albeit strangely familiar, is tugging at Crowley's consciousness. It's a warm feeling, making his chest feel full to bursting. It hits him like a kick to the solar plexus when he realizes what the feeling is.

"Oh, _angel_ , I can, ah-, I can feel it. Love, yours-, _God_ , dunno how, but _fuck_ , it's so much. Ah, how's it so much?" He sounds almost panicked; overwhelmed, completely fucking _wrecked _by it.__

____

He hasn't felt this whole, this accepted, this _loved_ since his Fall and he can't imagine what he's done to deserve the sheer boatloads of it coming from the writhing angel beneath him, but he'll be twice damned if he doesn't give every bit as good as he gets.

____

"Yes, _Crowley_ , fuck, I love you, I want you to have it all, _everything_. OH! I'm so close, _please!"_ and Crowley works a hand between them to stroke Aziraphale one, twice, three times before he comes explosively beneath him, back arching, head thrown back and groaning Crowley's name low and dirty.

____

That fairly effectively undoes the last of Crowley's restraint and he buries his head in the angel's neck and his cock as deep in the angel as it'll go and comes deep inside him. It's so intense his vision greys out at the edges and it takes him a moment to come down enough to gently lower Aziraphale's legs, pull out slowly, and lay down beside his _fiancé (!)._

____

They lay there for some time, gripping each other tightly and catching their unnecessary breaths. After some time, Aziraphale pulls back enough to cup Crowley's face in his hands so gently, so sweetly.

____

"You've made me so happy, my dear. I'm so lucky. How did I get so lucky?" Crowley understands the feeling; he feels very much the same.

____

"It's all you angel. You make me better. You made me good enough for this." He watches the angel's eyes fill with happy tears.

____

After miracling away the mess, Crowley pulls the duvet back over them, tucking the angel against his chest while he lets his mind wander. He wonders if the angel may be amenable to wearing a black tux. Something dark and perhaps more fitted. If he hadn't just come his cock may have tried for a second round.

____

Unbeknownst to him, Aziraphale was thinking about how handsome Crowley had looked in a white jacket at Warlock's 11th birthday and wondered if he may be able to talk the demon into wearing a white suit, just for one special day.

____

They both drift off to thoughts of promises of forever, hand-in-hand.

____

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End file.
